I shake my head slowly, staring at her pale, frightened face. The way she’s posed puzzles me as much as it did when I first found her. Erin looks completely unlike herself, face scrubbed of makeup, clad in an old-fashioned gown, silvery and beaded . . .
“That dress isn’t hers,” I say, frowning.
“Are you sure?”
“She wouldn’t wear something so . . .”
I trail off. Slowly, I turn the photograph so Erin is laying horizontally instead of vertically. I squint at the willow boughs, at the red poppies . . .
“What is it?” Hawkes says, sharply.
“It’s . . . a painting.”
“What do you mean?”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding, becoming more certain by the moment.
“He posed her like Ophelia.”
“Are you talking about Hamlet?”
“Yeah. John Everett Millais painted the scene where Ophelia drowns in a river. This is what she looks like,” I hold up the photograph. “Shaw recreated the painting.”
Hawkes takes the picture from me and examines it anew, his expression skeptical.
“I told you!” I insist. “Shaw’s an artist. He’d know that painting.”
“You’re all artists,” Hawks says, tucking the photograph back inside his folder. “You, Shaw, Erin . . . all your roommates.”
“Except Peter,” I amend.
“It doesn’t point the finger at Shaw,” Hawks says.
“Then what would?” I snap.
“Physical evidence.”
“He’s not stupid enough to leave evidence. You’ve never found evidence on any of the Beast’s victims.”
“You think Shaw’s the Beast of the Bay?” Now Hawks definitely thinks I’m grasping at straws. “The MO’s are completely different.”
“It’s Shaw,” I insist. “I’m telling you.”
Hawks sighs, pushing back his chair and standing up like his back hurts. He presses the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, then dons his glasses once more.
“Come on,” he says. “Before your boyfriend causes any more trouble.”
He leads me out of the interrogation room, down the warren of hallways that winds through the police station.
Several officers stare at me as we pass. Their expressions are suspicious and unfriendly—angry that Hawks is letting me go.
“About fucking time,” Cole barks, the moment he sees me.
A warm rush of relief washes over me at the sight of him. His tall, stark figure, terrifying under the wrong circumstances, seems incredibly reassuring when deployed on my behalf. It’s clear he’s been terrorizing the officers, raising hell until they let me out.
The balls on him to stride into a police station and start barking orders. I guess that’s what it’s like being rich and privileged: you never feel nervous, even when you’re guilty as sin.
I hurry over to Cole, letting him envelop me with his arm around my shoulders, shielding me from the glares of a dozen cops.
“Did they do anything to you?” he growls. “Did they hurt you? Harass you?”
“No,” I say. “Officer Hawks was perfectly polite.”
That only seems to harden Cole’s animosity. He pulls me tight against his side, glowering at Hawks.
“If you want to speak with her again, you can call my lawyer,” he says, flicking a business card disdainfully across the information desk.
Hawks watches the card land, but makes no move to pick it up. His cool blue eyes sweep over Cole just as they did to me, taking in every detail, missing nothing.
“I’ll be in touch,” he says.
Cole steers me out of the police station, out onto the street.
I’m shocked to see that it’s fully dark again, the whole day gone while I sat in that windowless room.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Cole demands, spinning me around so I have to look directly into his furious face.
“I had to tell them about Shaw!” I cry. “He killed Erin! He was probably there to kill me. She’s dead and it’s my fault.”
“And what good did it do?” Cole scoffs. “Did you see them leading him away in handcuffs?”
“No,” I admit.
“Of course not! It’s not his first fucking rodeo. Shaw is smart. He knows how to cover his tracks.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I burst out.
Cole takes hold of my face with both hands. He tilts up my chin, making me look into his eyes.